


To Her Own Tune

by r_lee



Category: Chocolat (2000)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-24
Updated: 2008-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:28:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1626725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_lee/pseuds/r_lee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Melanie-Anne</p>
    </blockquote>





	To Her Own Tune

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Melanie-Anne

 

 

Little things went missing at first. Nothing of consequence. Nothing as important as the casket holding Mama's ashes or the red cloaks kept in the rear of the closet. Only little things: a chocolate here, a pen or pencil there. A pair of stockings, a hair tie. At first I chalked it up to my unfamiliarity with the place or perhaps it was Anouk, my wonderful and imaginative child, sharing these things with Pantoufle.

But it was Josephine, always Josephine. When she thought I wasn't looking I would see her: my comb moving through her hair, the last of the almonds disappearing into her mouth, the book being hidden away. This was never cause for concern: things are things and can be replaced, with the exception of Mama's ashes. That is the one thing that she could not touch, but she never did. She knew they were sacrosanct.

Anouk liked her. After a few days -- and once Josephine acknowledged Pantoufle with that strange quirky nod of her head, as if she had never been allowed to move it without Serge's permission -- they were nearly thick as thieves, those two. Secret glances exchanged, hidden laughter shared. I liked seeing it; that was good for Anouk and just as good for Josephine. It was while Anouk was off at school that the more interesting things happened. I would find Josephine gazing at herself in the mirror like she truly saw herself for the first time. Or trying on a scarf of mine. When she saw me watching, I tucked it around her neck and gave her a brooch to fasten it with. _You look lovely,_ I told her, and she did. Care lines etched deeply into her face and I couldn't imagine her putting up with Serge for so long. She deserved her freedom. She deserved to laugh and sing and have fun. She deserved to be _Josephine._

I heard words from her too, once she came to stay, words not intended to be shared and at the same time meant to be shared more than anything. _I don't steal. Not on purpose._ Of course she didn't steal on purpose. She barely understood that she was doing it most of the time. _They think I'm crazy but they're just jealous because_ they _don't leave_ their _husbands._ That was maybe the most telling. And then the most chilling words: _I lie._

My heart went out to her. I remember when she came to me, that night she left Serge. I remember the excitement and triumph on her face, the face she called crazy, the face covered with bruises. It might have seemed a small act of bravery to anyone else, but to Josephine it was the world. It's not easy for people to change everything like that. In an instant, with a snap of their fingers. I was so proud of her. Of _course_ she would stay with us.

The day Serge came to apologize and she told him to leave, I couldn't have been more proud of her. And the night he came to steal her back? There was never anything better than the resolve in her voice. _Who says I can't use a skillet?_ That was _our_ Josephine, not his. Not the town's. 

Not God's.

What is the measure of the value of a possession compared to the value of a person and their pride? The books, the combs, the chocolates, the stockings: those were just _things._ But to see Josephine flourish? To see her shed the mantle she wore as Serge's wife and become her own person? No value could be assigned to that gift. She soaked it all up: the knowledge, the confidence, the _confidences,_ the three of us as a defiant family making chocolate together in a town that denied far more than just chocolate. She could keep all the little things, the items borrowed, the trinkets. What she became in return -- a flower opening to the sun -- was the most precious gift of all.

 


End file.
